


Famous Last Words

by My_Black_Crimson_Rose6



Series: The Ghost Of You [1]
Category: Red vs. Blue
Genre: Angst, Canon Compliant, I'm so so sorry, M/M, Soulmate-Identifying "Last Words", Soulmates
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-01
Updated: 2015-05-01
Packaged: 2018-03-26 13:56:48
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,321
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3853183
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6/pseuds/My_Black_Crimson_Rose6
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Washington wasn’t looking for someone to love though he found it in Maine.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Famous Last Words

**Author's Note:**

> The "evil" prompt of: soulmate au where instead of your soulmates first words to you written on your skin it’s their last words you ever hear them say so you don’t know who your soulmate is until you lose them.
> 
> I thought of Mainewash first then I thought of Murder Sandwich. And that says something. Mainewash is my emotional ship, holy shit does this ship make me want a happy ending for them but I haven't gone out and written one yet. I JUST WANT THEM HAPPY WHY AM I DOING THIS?! 
> 
> And I had to go a look at the transcripts for Wash's line so its canon.

Sometimes Wash thinks he should be glad about the whole bolded words on the inside of his thigh. It means that he’s going to find someone—someone was actually meant to be his in his life and he’d actually get to meet them. There were some people that didn’t have any markings on their body; it was rare but it happens sometimes. Maybe their soulmate can’t speak (though Wash is confused by this because they’re still able to hold a conversation using sign language), or maybe they’d never meet them, or maybe they _didn’t_ have one.

Sometimes—most times—Wash wishes that he was one of those rare people who never had those markings. The words carved into his flesh would be the last thing that person would ever _speak_ to him. That thought hurt—it hurt to know that the last thing this person would ever say to Wash would be **Thanks**.

It didn’t narrow anything down—and what would his soulmate thank him for?

But at least it was better than a “hey” or a “hello”—David had seen one of those when he was a kid. The girl had the mark right under her left eye and people would always stare at her. David had always made sure to greet her with a “how are you?” just so she didn’t need to feel the constant disappointment and fear that came with that one word.

He felt it too—every thanks was a spike of fear, it would grip at his heart and the world would slow. He would wait for something to happen; for the person to fall over dead or maybe say something else. He use to breakdown into big fat tears, they’d roll down his face and soak his shirt—it was horrible and embarrassing and it took forever for anyone to understand what it meant.

His family had to learn different ways of thanking him—thank you, or much thanks. Never just that one work—never, it could never be just that one word.

As David grew the importance of that one word dulled, he didn’t feel like actively searching for his soulmate—he wouldn’t know it was them until their last words anyways. He’d find someone to love, someone who loved him back—that that thanks would be for a great life and a memorable love.

He’d make that **Thanks** one that would be said in a hospital bed while they’re both old and gray and weak—David would hold their hand, kissing their knuckles and they’d whisper that with a bright smile and happy tears gathering in their eyes. It would be a **Thanks** for the memories.

David didn’t look for his soulmate—he didn’t really even look for someone to love either. He ended up joining the military, fighting in a war, and joining Freelancer.

David wasn’t looking and so was Washington.

He was still just a kid, a kid surrounded by blood and death and fighting (and that _fucking_ leader board). He wasn’t a leader and he didn’t have any big talents—he was a teammate, he was always a team player. He liked _teams_. Everyone had a special talent in Freelancer. _Everyone_. Sometimes Wash liked to pretend that he had one—that his was maybe teamwork, or being able to make people laugh.

Washington wasn’t expecting it. He wasn’t expecting the feeling that would wash over him every time someone would say thanks—sometimes they were sarcastic, sometimes it was in a fit of laughter, sometimes it was serious (heartfelt). Washington wasn’t expecting to _enjoy_ hearing that word; it had always gripped his heart with a fear.

Washington wasn’t expecting to make friends in Freelancer—they were serious, so _focused_. Connie, York, North and Maine. As much as York would argue that he wasn’t, he was—he was focused on Carolina and that leader board. He needed to make sure that he had her back (he loved her), Wash could understand that. Connie wanted to prove herself; prove herself to both herself and the director (though there was always something more). North had South, and South was just a mess of temper.

Maine... Maine had his problems, he didn’t talk much and for some reason Wash and he took. Wash was like glue some days, constantly stuck to that man’s side. Everyone had placed bets to see how long it took for Maine to launch the rookie through a wall—they all lost.

Washington liked Maine. He liked him more than he expected—it started because he didn’t talk much. Wash liked that—he could fill the silence with his own voice if he really needed to. He could understand Maine’s silence; he would hum and ha and shift his body enough for Washington to read a whole paragraph long explanation from him. And sometimes they’d sign when they wanted to make sure no one else could understand them.

Washington wasn’t looking for someone to love though he found it in Maine. He found it after he got shot on a mission for the first time and Maine carried him out of there. He found it when Wash’s hands shook when he pulled both Maine and his own helmet off and pressed their lips together for the first time. He found it when he’d curl against Maine’s chest in the dead of night after sneaking into the man’s room and then into his bed. He found it the first time they made love. He found it when the man brushed his thumb over **Thanks** and Maine stared up at him fondly.

Wash had traced over the words covering the entirety of the man’s back in scratchy writing, sloped and uneven—like the person who wrote it had broke their arm or wrist multiple times. Maine would lie there, humming and ha-ing as Wash traced over the works: **I just can't believe... can't believe... I can't believe it.**

...

It’s been years.

It made sense. Of course it made sense.

“Thanks,” Maine had said grinning behind his helmet as he holstered the Brute Shot for the first time. It suited him and Wash had told him so—it was the last thing Maine ever said to him that wasn’t Wash interpreting it through growls or Sigma running wild and at times saying different things than what Maine had actually said (same thing different wording Maine had tried to explain, Wash never liked it).

“I just can't believe... can't believe... I can't believe it,” Wash had gaped as the Pelican crashed from the sky.

It took him too long to figure it out—too long to have a moment to remember everything about his former lover before he became the Meta. The Meta was a shell—a hollow shell of Maine, of _his soulmate_. He had no right to have Maine’s body and to walk around with that mark.

David clutched his head and folded in on himself; rocking slowly forward and back and a sob broke in his throat, then behind his teeth and finally in the open air of his room. David wailed, grabbing hold of his helmet and throwing it as hard as possible across the room—the visor cracking and David cried all the harder.

He yelled—he screamed, pushing himself into near hysterics as he clutched at his shirt over his heart and his soulmate brand. He sobbed and cried and _broke_. He cried even as some poor soul pitied him enough to enter Washington’s room to wrap their arms around him and gather him into their lap where they rocked him back and forth. “I don’t like it when you cry Agent Wash-ing-ton,” the man’s grip impossibly strong as they rubbed and cooed and rocked the ex-Freelancer.

Caboose didn’t fill the moment with chatter—there was nothing but David Washington’s horrid, broken sobs and Caboose _shhh’_ ing noise as he held the older man all the tighter.


End file.
